


The Measure of my Dreams

by orphan_account



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, The Gift (short film), dreamshare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 23:00:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is in a metro in what seems to be post-apocalyptical Moscow. He has no memories, but a gift for Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Measure of my Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This is loosely based on the short film the gift (I'll link it at the bottom). I would really appreciate it if you told me what you think about it. If you spot any mistakes, please tell me so I can change them :) I hope you have a wonderful day.

The first thing Eames notices is the soothing, rhythmic movement of the train. He opens his eyes. His first thought, absurdly, is that he must have dosed off for a moment.

Only then does it occur to him that he has no memory of this place. For the fraction of a second, panic surges through his veins.  He breathes slowly, in and out. Checks for his totem. He cannot find it. Still asleep, then. These days, he doesn’t go anywhere without his totem and even though he would feel better if he could check the familiar weight, it’s probably better that way. This way, he knows for sure he is dreaming.

 

Eames tries to remember the real world. It is dazed. It might have been raining. He cannot remember why he fell asleep. (A natural dream then, he wonders. That would be the first time in years).

Instead, he takes in his surroundings.

The train is empty but for him and it has the typical flair of city public transport. The windows are black, so either it is night or he is driving underground. There is no litter and just enough dirt to make the environment not seem sterile. To Eames, who has years of experience of making things look just used enough to not raise attention, it’s suspicious.

(You know where you hope the train will take you, he thinks wildly. But you don’t know for sure. He can’t remember where that came from.)

(Cobb didn’t like trains.)

(Cobb. It had something to do with Cobb.)

 

Eames wants to stand up, when he notices the package in his lap. It is wrapped in red paper with a huge golden bow. It looks very much like a Christmas present.

(Eames doesn’t know what time it was when he fell asleep, but he is fairly sure it was not Christmas).

It is surprisingly heavy, now that he pays attention to it. It looks a lot like one of Cobb’s extraction methods. That would mean the Mark was a child, or perhaps the information had something to do with the Mark’s childhood, only this is not a job and there aren’t any people, especially not Marks around.

Maybe I am going to extract from myself, Eames thinks.  Hesitantly, he pulls at one end of the bow to loosen it, only half convinced he wants to see what is inside the package. (Eames mind is a dark place these days, full of memories that never were and dreams that will never be and rivers of blood in between). It is then that he discovers the name tag, neatly tucked under the ribbon. “Arthur” it says.

 

For only the tiniest moment, the blink of an eye, Eames doesn’t remember who Arthur is.

(He has tried to forget him so often.)

Then, of course, it floods back to him, images of the Point Man. Inception, he remembers. Asking Arthur out for a cup of coffee (again) and being rejected (again). Laughing it off and being a tiny bit hurt inside.

He doesn’t remember anything tangible after that, but suddenly he knows that Arthur is in this dream. He isn’t sure why, but he knows that this is no ordinary dream. There is something just beyond his reach that he should remember.

He doesn’t. But Arthur needs to get that present.

 

The train stops at a deserted station. Eames steps onto the platform, still clutching the gift and takes a deep breath.

The air smells like metro station air always smells, after piss and stale beer, sweat and dust and quotidian life. The scent is fainter here than in other cities, probably because there are no people around. The sign says “Komsomolskaya” in Cyrillic and Eames feels strangely calmed. He knows this station and its world famous marble halls, he had been here once in waking. Moscow it is, then.

 

He cannot see the exit, but suspects it to be at the end of the platform. Eames starts walking and the loud echo of his steps makes fear creep up on him.

(Eames is rarely scared, and he is almost never scared in dreams. It’s not real after all. But here, it is different. At first, Eames suspects it is because he cannot see any enemies although the dream feels like it should have some. Then he realizes that it is because he is alone.)

It is strange. Eames is never alone.

(Eames is always alone. He prefers to work alone, to not have any close relationships, that’s why he chose Mombasa. He doesn’t speak more than about three words Swahili)

There are always projections in the dreams, dreamshare colleagues

(Does he even still live in Mombasa?)

Arthur.

(Where is Arthur?)

If this is a dream, where are the projections?

 

Eames reaches the end of the platform. There are escalators, impossibly bright and high and unmoving. He cannot see the end of them. Eames closes his eyes.

(Wake up, he thinks. Change. Remember)

Nothing happens. He opens them again. When he steps onto the metal stairs, they start moving upwards.

 

Eames has no idea how long the ride lasts. It feels like an eternity. He uses the time to inspect the package a bit closer. The wrapping paper is a shade of red that feels surreal, the kind of color that cannot exist in the real world because it is too intense.

It is smooth and cool and when Eames swipes over it with his fingertips, he can feel patterns beneath it, maybe some kind of ornaments.

The name tag is simple, just a piece of paper on a thin golden band, matching the bigger bow it was hidden under.

It is only when Eames takes a second look that he realizes the script of the “Arthur” is one of his. His first forged one, actually, from fifth grade. A classmate had needed a written excuse from his mother and Eames had helped out. He is sure of it, still distinctly remembering the curl at the beginning of the A and the unique curve that connected the t and the h.

(His own dream for sure, he reasons. There was no way anybody else knew about that particular script.)

Why could he remember that incident when he could not remember anything else?

 

Finally, he reaches the top of the escalator. He steps into an unsurprisingly empty hall. The trademark marble is still intact, but just like on the escalator Eames cannot shake the feeling that something is off. He is used to this feeling by now, as it is very common in dreams, but it always makes him feel threatened.

It is the light, he realizes. He is pretty sure he has never seen light like this. It’s coming from futuristic looking lamps that are embedded in the ceiling, far too angular for the antique flair of the room. Also, it is a ghostly bluish-white, sharper than he would have thought possible. The few shadows in the room are absolutely black, contrasting the general brightness.

Eames crosses the hall as fast as possible, clutching his present to his chest. He approaches one of the tall doors, almost expecting it to be locked. But it opens without a sound and suddenly, Eames is standing on a street.

 

The light here is a bit less artificial, but it doesn’t feel like sunlight, either. The sky is a monotone steel gray. Also unsettling is the complete lack of scent.

I have to find Arthur, Eames thinks. I am in a city that is not Moscow and I have a package for Arthur.

 

(Arthur smiles. His eyes are gentle.

“Eames” he whispers.

Eames smiles back. It is lazy and comfortable and nicer than Eames has managed in years.

Then Arthur kisses him.)

 

Eames freezes. Arthur kissed him. He remembers Arthur kissing him. It feels like part of a puzzle, like it happened often, but Eames just can’t remember.

Did it really happen? Did it happen in reality? In a dream of his own, in a shared one? Why would it?

 

All of a sudden, Eames is not alone anymore. Two men with heavy guns and gasmasks approach him. They look like the inhabitants of a post-apocalyptic world.

Theoretically, Eames knows he shouldn’t worry. His own projections wouldn’t turn on him. Yet these feel unfamiliar.

“Open your mouth.” One of the men (Eames supposes he is a man) says. Puzzled, Eames obliges.

The man takes a probe out of the pocket of his trousers and puts it on his tongue. It is disgustingly cold and tastes metallic.

The man looks at it and then raises his head to look at Eames closer (at least Eames guesses that by the movements of his hands).

“You have permission to be on the street.” The man says. He sounds puzzled.

Eames nods. “Excuse me, but where can I find Arthur?” he asks.

The man is quiet for almost a whole minute. Just as Eames wants to wave it off, the man silently points down a street.

“Thank you.” Eames murmurs.

 

The street is grey and the buildings were clearly built during the Soviet era. Eames has no idea why Arthur (or his projection of him) would be in such a place. If anywhere in Moscow, Eames would expect him to be inside the GUM.  Well, or at the Kremlin.

Suddenly, Eames stops. Amidst the grey, angular houses from the 1960s is a much older, brown house. It looks like it is from at least the 1850s and definitely non-Russian. Also, it looks eerily familiar.

 

(Eames knows what this house looks like from the inside. He knows the hallways and the scent and he especially knows the three-room apartment on the second floor with a high ceiling and the tall windows Arthur is so fond of.

He can see him so clearly now in his memory, Arthur, naked, looking out of the window onto the street. Arthur, smiling, carrying a bag of groceries through the door. Arthur, in that greenish gray coat that he is so fond of, decidedly not rubbing against Eames while he walks up the stairs.)

 

Eames checks the windows, but Arthur is nowhere in sight. Yet, if Arthur is anywhere, he is here. Eames wonders where the memories came from, whether they are real, but he is aware of the fact that really, there is only one way to find out. He rings the doorbell.

 

A robot opens. He is white and futuristic and he has a vaguely human face, but he is definitely not Arthur.

“Um… hello.” Eames says, wondering whether he should introduce himself to his own projections. He decides against it. “I’d like to talk to Arthur.”

“Come in”, the robot says in a voice that is almost comically metallic. “Mr. Arthur is in the salon.”

Eames nods and enters.

The hallway is the same as he remembers it, but it leads into a posh living room that is decorated like it belongs to Queen Victoria herself. On the huge mahogany table, Eames can see a bowl full of what seems to be ashes.

Arthur is standing facing the window that looks just like in Eames strange memory. He doesn’t acknowledge Eames at all.

For a few seconds, he just stands there awkwardly, clutching his package not knowing what to do.

“Arthur?” He asks finally.

Arthur flinches visibly and turns around. He looks at him with wide surprised brown eyes.

“Yes?” and then. “Excuse me, but what are you doing in my living room?”

“Um. I think I have a package for you.” He feels strangely disappointed at the fact that Arthur doesn’t seem to remember him.

He hands Arthur the package, but Arthur doesn’t even look at it, he just observes Eames with furrowed brows.

“Do I know you?” Arthur asks after about thirty seconds.

Eames shrugs. He wishes he were sure himself how well he knew Arthur. “In fact, you. I am Eames.” He answers.

“Eames.” Arthur repeats, smiling. “Well then, what is inside this packet?”

“I haven’t opened it.” Eames answers honestly.

Arthur gives him one last look and then sighs. “Let’s go into my office.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I said let’s go into my office.” Arthur sounds a lot like the Arthur Eames remembers well now, the one from the Inception job who keeps turning him down.

 

Arthur’s office is just as opulently furnished as the living room. The tall wooden desk alone would be enough to make most people intimidated and the oil paintings and bookshelves full of leather-bound volumes as well as the thick dark red carpet only add to that.

Eames doesn’t question why Arthur wants him there.

 

Arthur puts the gift and then slowly opens the bow. He opens the wrapping paper (silently and without tearing it apart, looking so very Arthur-ish that Eames has to smile) and reveals a silver box that is covered in ornaments. Eames remember feeling them through the paper at the metro station.

It doesn’t seem to have any way to open it.

For a moment, it just sits there on the desk and they both stare at it.

“And now?” Arthur asks. Eames just shrugs.

Finally, Arthur starts stroking the surface of the box with his hands, smiling as he finds a small mechanism. Gently, he pushes against it.

With a click, the box slides open.

 

Inside the box, there are only two little items, embedded in red velvet. A die and a poker chip.

They both furrow their brows.

Eames, of course recognizes their totems. They both reach out for them at the same time and their hands meet. As Eames test his chip, he notices the weight is slightly off. His real totem is filled with silver, making it heavier than usual. This one, however, is a normal poker chip.

 

In the corner of his eye, Eames can see Arthur testing his totem again and again. Finally, he seems satisfied with the results and turns around. There is something different in his eyes now.

“Eames” he says. And in the way Eames’ name rolls of his tongue, there is the difference between dreams and memory.

 

“Arthur”, Eames murmurs back. Arthur steps closer to him and suddenly his dry lips are on Eames’. It feels familiar. The memory comes back, pushing to the surface and Eames is paralyzed by it. Arthur kissing him. Again and again and again.

Arthur takes a step back and runs his hand through his hair. Eames recognizes it as one of his nervous gestures.

“How could I forget?” Arthur asks. “Why did I…?” He trails off.

“Arthur, this is just a dream.” Eames whispers, unsure whether Arthur had come to the same result.

Arthur nods. “I know. We should wake up.”

“Do you think there is a kick?”

Arthur shrugs. Then he takes Eames’ face in his hands and kisses him again. When Eames melts into it and closes his eyes, he breaks his neck.

 

Eames wakes up. Immediately, he checks his totem. It is just as heavy as it should be. Across the room is Arthur, blinking and checking, too.

When he sees Eames is awake, he pulls out his IV and walks over. He is swaying a bit, still disoriented by the dream.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs. With shaking hands he removes the needle from Eames’ arm and then buries his face in the space between Eames’ neck and shoulder.

“There wasn’t going to be no kick” he says, voice muffled, and Eames can’t help but smile at the double negation. Arthur sometimes talked like that when he was nervous. (He would never admit it anytime else, though).

“It’s okay. Just tell me what the hell was going on.”

“I don’t remember either. It’s all a haze. But I remember Yusuf saying there would be no kick.”

“Yusuf?”

 

“Yes?” a voice asks from behind. Yusuf.

Both Arthur and Eames look up, Arthur trying desperately to look like he didn’t just cling to Eames. There is a faint blush covering his cheeks.

“What the hell is going on?” Eames asks again.

Yusuf smiles. “Arthur is right, I couldn’t give you a kick. You fulfilled a very difficult mission which didn’t allow me to leave the inner-ear functions unaltered. You wouldn’t have felt falling.”

“What mission?” Arthur sounds puzzled and very exhausted.

Yusuf sighs. “You are experiencing mild amnesia, but that will pass soon. You had to delete memories, which called for both a strong sedation especially  of the brain cortex.”

“Why?” Both Eames and Arthur ask simultaneously.

“Cobol Engineering had put a price on your heads and a Russian bounty hunter had tracked down Cobb and his family. You needed to delete that information.”

“But that’s impossible.” Arthur objects. “Or at least it has never done before.”

“True. But Cobb had some nice ideas, which involved burning the manifestation of the ideas or something. I don’t know, you were responsible for that part. Anyway, since you shared a PASIV it affected you too. That’s why we needed Eames. Inside the dreams, only a very strong emotional impulse could trigger the memories. Your totem would have been useless, as you would not have remembered what it was. Eames had to give it to you.”

“But I didn’t remember Eames.”

“You did after he brought you the totem, didn’t you? The combination of those two are the strongest trigger that could possibly exist for you, Arthur.” Yusuf chuckles.

 

“Where is the Mark now?” Eames interrupts. “And why didn’t we just kill him on the spot.”

“On his way to Switzerland, and we couldn’t because he had securities in place that would have sent Cobol to Cobb regardless. However, thanks to your tampering with his memories, he has them deleted now.”

 

“I still didn’t like it.” Eames whispers. Arthur laughs. “Neither did I. And I had to kill myself with a letter opener. Got blood all over that wonderful desk.”

Eames forces out a laugh, trying not to imagine the scene.

“Come on baby, let’s go home.” Arthur chuckles into his ear.

And they do. They go home to their beautiful three-room apartment in their beautiful brown house and finally, Eames remembers.

**Author's Note:**

> You can watch the short film here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pJIxA2RbW2A (it is only 4:40 long and really well made, you should watch it)  
> The title is from the song "Rainy Night in Soho" by "The Pogues" and it is a great Arthur/Eames song.


End file.
